


Sherlock: Alcohol Fuels Everything

by IBegToDreamAndDiffer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Caught, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Public Sex, Romance, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-23
Updated: 2012-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-30 00:53:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/325967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IBegToDreamAndDiffer/pseuds/IBegToDreamAndDiffer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade and John are just having fun. And then the Holmes brothers get involved.  Eventual Mystrade and Johnlock. Basically this is porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock: Alcohol Fuels Everything

**Author's Note:**

> Ownership: Original characters are owned by Arthur Conan Doyle, these versions are owned by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. I just get to play.

Alcohol fuels everything. It’s the main reason for teenage pregnancy, for accidents, for deaths, for two men who barely know each other to sleep together. Sure, there was some shameful flirting, some touches that were way beyond appropriate in a public place. But without the alcohol neither man would have stripped, would have touched, would have pressed up against each other naked. Not that it was really a bad thing. Just something they wouldn’t have done without alcohol.

Six glasses of very strong bourbon was why Greg Lestrade woke with a groan. His head was thumping painfully and he crawled out of bed to get a glass of water and some painkillers. He was feeling a bit better five minutes later when he returned to his bedroom.

Only to find John Watson sitting up. First John was naked. Second he had a very large, very noticeable hickey on his neck. Third he was staring at Greg, eyes wide. Four Greg was naked.

‘I... er... what?’ Greg gasped.

‘Oh my God,’ John moaned, rubbing at his eyes. He blinked them open again and said, ‘Is this real? Please tell me I’m dreaming.’

‘If you are than we should seriously have a talk about why you’re dreaming about me.’

John managed a smile and swung his legs from bed, the sheets falling from his tanned, naked frame.

‘Jesus Christ, you’re naked.’

‘Er, so are you,’ John said, looking the DI up and down. ‘What the hell did we do last night? We... we didn’t... did we?’

Greg’s head turned to look at his bedside table. On it was a box of condoms, a used condom and a bottle of lube. ‘I’d say yes... yes, we definitely had sex.’

‘Yeah, I thought so...’ John said slowly, coughing to clear his aching throat. He guessed sex wasn’t all they’d done. ‘What... what now?’

‘I dunno,’ Greg said honestly and sat beside John, handing the doctor the glass of water. John slurped it all down and grunted in thanks. ‘I’m beginning to remember...’

‘Yeah, me too,’ John said. ‘Bad day, alcohol–’

‘Lots of alcohol,’ Greg cut in. ‘We flirted, we kissed. And then we came back here for sex.’

‘Good sex,’ John said and Greg chuckled.

‘I won’t argue that,’ he smiled, remembering the feel of John beneath him. ‘But... Jesus, we shouldn’t have done that. I mean, it was good, but we barely know each other.’

‘Yeah, I know,’ John nodded.

‘I mean... you don’t... you don’t want a relationship, do you?’ Greg asked and looked sideways at the doctor.

‘God no,’ John shook his head. ‘Don’t get me wrong, you’re a good bloke and a fantastic shag–’ Greg grinned, ‘– but no, I don’t want a relationship.’

‘Good,’ Greg said. ‘So we can chalk this up to a drunken mistake.’

John was feeling better now that they’d talked. He set the glass down and looked at the condom box. ‘You know...’ he said slowly and Greg looked at him as he picked the box up. ‘There’s only one condom left.’

Greg raised his eyebrows. ‘You can’t be serious.’

‘Seems a shame to let it go to waste,’ John continued, pulling the foil packet from the cardboard. ‘And I didn’t exactly get to enjoy _all_ of you last night, now did I?’

‘Do you realise how big a mistake that would be?’ Greg tried again.

John silenced him with a kiss and Greg couldn’t help but moan. ‘Lestrade, neither of us wants a relationship, yeah? But we’re adults here and sex helps calm you down. Lord knows I could use some calming after the past month. So are you going to make one more drunken mistake or am I going home with an erection?’

There was little to be done after that. Greg tore the condom open and rolled it onto John’s erection as they kissed, tongues and teeth clashing in an aim to taste more, feel more. Greg was pressed into the mattress and John moved between his legs, slipping in without a word.

Greg gasped and swore as his muscles spread to let John in. ‘Fucking Christ, John.’

‘God you’re tight,’ John grunted.

‘Been... a... while...’ Greg managed after John started thrusting, the doctor leaning down to kiss him heatedly.

They went much slower than they had the night before. John teased and slid against Greg’s prostate, the DI reduced to a blubbering, begging mess. He stroked his own cock as John amped up his pace, suddenly aware that he had to get to work. And Greg _was_ begging.

Greg came first but squeezed an orgasm out of John seconds later. Really, how could a man be _that_ tight? John groaned and rolled off, sweaty, tired and feeling better than he had in months.

‘I guess I should thank you,’ Greg said softly, still trying to catch his breath. ‘I haven’t had sex in months.’

‘Same here,’ John smiled. ‘Years since I was with another bloke.’

‘Well I’m glad I could turn you again.’

John chuckled. ‘Mm.’

They had jobs to go to, criminals to catch and patients to see. Greg pulled John in for one last kiss before they parted ways. ‘Drunken mistake, yeah?’

‘Yeah,’ John agreed. ‘Won’t happen again.’

 

-oOo-

 

Alcohol really is a mad, deranged little bastard. It acts all sweet and innocent, its various colours and tastes throwing you off. It’s lovely when you first sip it, taste it, swirl it down your throat and feel it settle nicely in your stomach. Alcohol begs to be had, absolutely _begs_ you to take just one more drink. One more taste, one more bottle, and next thing you know you’re making out in the back seat of a taxi.

Greg and John would both swear later that it was the alcohol. It was probably also the serial killer who’d made them run all over London for the past three days. And of course Sherlock Holmes was also to blame; he just had to run faster, had to get in more danger, had to figure out where the fuck whit was and go in without any back up.

It led to a three hour shoot out that only ended when Mycroft Holmes intervened. He then shouted at Sherlock for a good ten minutes, making Sherlock shout at John, making John shout at Greg, making Greg shout at Mycroft and making Mycroft shout at Sherlock again so the entire thing repeated like an endless cycle. So really it was Mycroft’s fault too.

Greg and John were both tired and Sherlock was forced to spend the night in hospital (maybe Mycroft should have been thanked for that one). They went for a pint, which turned into five, which turned into ten, which turned into Greg dry-humping John and forcing a cabbie to shout at them.

It was a familiar routine now, one that had Greg forcing John onto the bed and stripping him. Because Greg _would_ take John first. That’s how he was; he needed to fuck his partner first. John wasn’t complaining. He liked feeling full. Besides, he could fuck Greg later.

Greg was out of condoms but John was adamant they were having sex. He was clean, Greg was too. They both had to be for their jobs and got tested regularly.

Fortunately the DI had lube. John nearly thanked God when Greg slipped into him, cock hitting his prostate first time. Everything was swirling and heated and just so fucking good. Alcohol, sweet alcohol making John’s vision blur as Greg pounded into him. Alcohol, beautiful alcohol making Greg’s body quiver as he fucked a very sexy doctor.

Afterwards both fell asleep. And in the morning they’d claim alcohol had a disastrous (yet fun) effect on their relationship. It wouldn’t happen again, no, absolutely not. Even after John managed to talk Greg into sex again, both were absolutely sure it would never, ever happen again.

 

-oOo-

 

Has anyone mentioned how alcohol fuels everything? Well it does. Deranged, remember? Absolutely sneaky little fucker, yeah? We’ve all got that? We all realise that alcohol, while lovely, really is out to get the human race? Good, we can continue.

Greg and John were at the pub again after a delightful little case that left Sherlock Holmes in crutches; that’s why it was delightful. Neither man had slept for two days, what with Sherlock getting kidnapped and all. Even Mycroft Holmes had seemed absolutely fucked when they’d left him at the hospital. Greg couldn’t help but notice that Mycroft Holmes was very, very handsome when he had stubble, when his hair was all dishevelled, when his tie was undone. Well really he was always handsome in Greg’s eyes.

He thought about that as he sipped his bourbon, aware that John Watson was pressed into his side. The man looked half dead and Greg knew he was just as much a mess. But John had been a lot angrier, a lot more worried, than Greg. It was obvious why, of course. John had a thing for Sherlock just like Greg had a thing for Mycroft. But the Holmes brothers were, as far as anyone could tell, absolutely asexual. Greg guessed that their massive intelligence just drowned out a need for sexual contact.

‘Fuckin’ idiot,’ John mumbled.

‘Who me?’ Greg asked, alcohol slurring his voice.

John giggled. Yeah, he was drunk too. ‘Nah, Sherlock. _Sherlock_ ’ _s_ a fuckin’ idiot.’

‘Oh... duh, everyone knows that.’

‘Yeah but... _Jesus_ _Christ on a pole_ is that man _thick_! Runnin’ into a fuckin’ house with a fuckin’ serial killer with a fuckin’ _gun_!’

‘Fuckin’!’ Greg interjected, once again reducing John to giggles. They got a few glances from sober patrons but neither man really cared.

‘He just... God, doesn’ look out for ’imself, ya know? Just a fuckin’ _idiot_.’

Greg smiled. ‘Yeah, well. Wouldn’ be Sherlock ’Olmes if he didn’t do stupid things.’

‘Git,’ John grunted.

‘Me?’

He smiled. ‘Nah, you’re right, Greggie.’

‘Greggie?’ Greg grinned. Now he was giggling.

‘Yeah, Greggie,’ John said, dropping his glass onto the counter. ‘What are you gonna do about it?’

Apparently Greg figured that snogging was the best way to deal with it. He practically dragged John off his stool as he mashed their lips together, breath reeking of alcohol. John groaned and kissed back, fingers pulling at the DI’s grey spikes.

‘Excuse me,’ the bartender said, trying and failing to get their attention. ‘Oi!’ They broke apart, both flushed and with red, swollen lips. ‘Take it elsewhere.’

‘What, ’cause we’re gay?’ Greg demanded.

‘No, because it’s seven o’clock and there are families here who don’t need to see two adults humping.’

Greg and John turned to see that, yes, there were indeed families there... with small children. Greg really didn’t want to get arrested for indecent exposure (God, imagine the headlines?) so he grabbed John by the arm and pulled him from the pub.

They managed to keep their mouths off each other in the cab (their hands had entirely different needs thank you very much) and were on each other by the time they entered 221B. John knew they weren’t going to make it to his room (who’s idea had it been for him to take the one upstairs?) so instead they fell onto the couch, Greg already ripping at the doctor’s clothes.

He entered him without lube or a condom, using saliva to slick himself up. John groaned and dug his fingers into Greg’s hips, pulling him deeper and deeper in. Greg was lost in a haze of bliss and heat, John Watson feeling so hard and soft and fucking spectacular beneath him.

Greg came first, shooting into John and swearing loudly. John followed a few seconds later, fingers bruising Greg’s flesh. Greg pulled out and fell onto John, smothering him with that fit, warm body John had grown to enjoy. They would have stayed there too if the door hadn’t been forced open.

‘I heard shout– oh my _lord_!’

‘Mrs Hudson!’ John gasped, trying in vain to search for an article of clothing. Apparently Greg had felt the need to throw everything across the bloody room.

‘Detective?’ Mrs Hudson blurted, eyes wide as she recognised Lestrade.

‘Erm, hello,’ Greg managed, hands dropping to hide himself.

‘I... oh my... okay...’ Mrs Hudson backed out quickly and John groaned.

‘Fuckin’ hell,’ Greg mumbled, ‘and here we were trying to keep it from Sherlock.’

‘She’ll tell him,’ John said. ‘Fuck, I really don’t need his input on this.’

Greg sighed and sat on the edge of the couch feeling sticky and drunk. ‘Jesus.’

John managed to convince Mrs Hudson that Sherlock didn’t need to know. Nobody did; so if weird men in suits asked she was strictly not to say anything about catching DI Lestrade and Dr Watson naked together. Mycroft didn’t need to know either.

 

-oOo-

 

Alcohol didn’t play a part in the next little meeting, though it tried to. She called out from the bottom draw of Greg’s desk, begging the DI to be drunk on a Friday morning. Greg had been up three days, three longs days before Sherlock Holmes led them to the killer. And now the paperwork, the part that Sherlock and John got to miss out on.

He groaned and stretched before drinking his fifth cup of coffee in the past three hours. It was the only thing keeping him up. There was a knock on the door and Greg grunted, ‘Come in.’

John Watson entered looking just as worn out as Greg. Greg watched as John locked the door and pulled the blinds down, swathing them in privacy.

‘You can’t be serious.’

Apparently John _was_ serious. He pushed the paper work aside, dumped Greg’s coffee in the bin, and hauled the DI up. Apparently John was _very_ serious.

John had brought a condom and lube though Greg thought they were beyond condoms by now. He’d fucked the doctor twice without a condom and vice versa. Still, safe sex and all that.

John was pushed back onto the desk and had to bite down on his hand to make sure he didn’t shout. Outside were forty of Scotland Yard’s finest, all with the ability to spread rumours like a high school girl. Greg was conscious to keep his own grunting to a minimum as he thrust in and out of John.

The sex was... it was how it always was; hot, heavy and very good. Still, neither man wanted a relationship; they just didn’t like each other in _that_ way. That didn’t mean they couldn’t have sex. They were adults and they’d do what the damn well wanted thank you very much.

John pulled himself up and managed to fix his clothes back in place. Greg followed and they smiled at each other.

‘What, exactly, was that?’ Greg asked.

‘Sex,’ John shrugged. ‘Sorry, I didn’t hear you say stop.’

Greg chuckled. ‘No, I didn’t. But normally we’re drunk.’

John shrugged again. ‘Greg, I’m not in a relationship and neither are you. If one of us finds someone, good, we can stop then. But really, we’re adults, where’s the harm? Not like we’re hurting anyone, you know? Sometimes I need some stress relief and I know you do.’

Greg couldn’t help a smile breaking across his face. ‘Is that what I am? Stress relief?’

‘Mm,’ the doctor nodded, ‘I think of you as one of those squishy balls people squeeze when they need to calm down.’

Greg chuckled and pulled his jacket back on. ‘Right, well carry on.’

There was a knock on the door and Greg quickly disposed of the condom and shoved the box and lube into his top draw. He sat down as John unlocked his door and opened it.

‘Why is the door locked?’ Donovan demanded.

‘It’s called privacy, Sally,’ Lestrade huffed. ‘What’s up?’

‘My report,’ Sally said and dumped it on his desk. ‘Watson, how are you?’

‘Fine, thank you,’ the doctor replied happily.

Sally’s eyes narrowed and she asked, ‘Why are you in such a good mood? Did you kill the Freak?’

‘No, I didn’t kill _Sherlock_ ,’ John said.

Lestrade snorted as Sally sighed. ‘Well, there’s always hope. What are you doing here, anyway?’

‘Am I not allowed to chat to DI Lestrade?’ John asked.

‘Yeah...’ Sally said slowly, ‘but I doubt you do it with your fly open.’

John looked down and cursed; Sally was right. He quickly zipped himself up, burning red as Greg smiled.

‘Wait, were you two just shagging?’ Sally demanded.

‘What?’ Greg spluttered.

‘How the hell do you get that from my fly being open?’ John asked.

‘Well, not just that,’ Sally said, ‘but from all Lestrade’s files being pushed to one side, from the way you two are sweating, from the condom in the bin.’

Greg cursed himself. This was why he should carry tissues. ‘Sally, listen–’

‘How long has this been going on?’ Sally said.

‘What’s going on?’ Anderson asked, coming in with a forensic report for Lestrade.

‘Boss and the doctor are shagging,’ Sally informed him.

Anderson looked from a blushing John Watson to a scowling Greg Lestrade. ‘Right... I thought the Freak and doctor were shagging.’

‘Apparently not,’ Sally said. ‘I owe Dimmock fifty quid.’

‘You’re betting on me?’ John demanded.

‘’Course,’ Sally grinned. ‘So go on, how long?’

‘It’s none of your business, Sally,’ Greg said sternly. ‘And it’s none of Sherlock’s business either, got it?’

Sally rolled her eyes. ‘Right, right, don’t tell me. Fine, be a spoil sport. Come on, Anderson.’ She dragged the other man from the office and John slammed the door shut.

‘This is going to come back to bite us in the arse,’ John said.

‘I agree,’ Greg nodded.

 

-oOo-

 

It did, of course it did. And it started with a few beers. Alcohol you annoying arsehole! They were drunk and in need of some good old man-on-man sex. Sherlock was currently at 221B with a cold case courtesy of Greg Lestrade so they couldn’t screw on the couch or table (the table, they found, was really fun).

They backed into Lestrade’s flat, all hands and teeth and tongue. They didn’t notice the man sitting on Greg’s couch until John flicked on the light to make sure neither cracked their skull on the way to the room (they’d found stumbling in the dark to really kill the mood).

‘Jesus, Mycroft!’ John gasped and pulled his hands from Greg’s pants.

The DI turned to see Mycroft Holmes sitting on his couch. He was sipping from a glass of wine, something he’d brought himself because Greg really had a horrible wine collection. ‘How the bloody hell did you get in here?’ he demanded, drunken eyes raking over Mycroft’s body. Really, did the man have to look _that_ good when breaking into his flat? ‘I’m gonna arrest you for breaking and entering!’

Mycroft chuckled and took another sip of wine. ‘Detective, you will hardly make those charges stick.’ He placed his glass on the coffee table and smiled at them pleasantly. But there was a faint note of malice beneath his calm exterior that had Greg and John both swallowing.

‘What do you want?’ Greg asked.

‘I have come here tonight to ask you two to stop this little... fling.’

‘Fling?’ John said. ‘What are you–’

‘Please don’t try to deny it, Dr Watson,’ Mycroft cut in. ‘I have footage of the two of you from both Baker Street and our good detective’s office.’

‘W-what?’ Greg gasped. ‘You’ve got cameras in my office?’

‘Of course,’ Mycroft said. ‘I watch everybody involved in my brother’s life.’

‘You’ll take ’em out right now!’ Greg demanded. ‘You have no bloody right watchin’ me in my office!’

Mycroft just smiled.

‘We’re not stoppin’ just ’cause you threaten us, Mycroft,’ John said, alcohol making his vision blurry. He blinked to see that Mycroft was frowning now. ‘We’re not doin’ anythin’ wrong.’

‘I see, so you two are in a _relationship_?’ He said the last word like it left a foul taste in his mouth.

‘No, we’re not,’ Greg huffed. ‘But we don’t have to be to fuck each other, right? We’re not hurtin’ anyone so just get out.’

Mycroft’s eyes strayed to Greg and sat there. If they weren’t drunk they would have noticed how Mycroft appeared to be in pain; how much it was absolutely killing him to see John’s hand on the DI’s lower back. But they were drunk so they didn’t notice anything other than his annoying presence.

‘I see,’ Mycroft said and stood. ‘So you will disregard everybody else’s feelings just to satisfy your animal urges?’

‘What... what feelings?’ John asked. ‘We’re not hurting anyone.’

‘If you really think that, Dr Watson, then you’re as stupid as I first thought you were,’ Mycroft said.

John glared at him and Mycroft cleared his throat.

‘Goodnight, then.’ He exited the flat quickly, leaving Greg and John staring at the door.

‘Fucking Holmeses,’ Greg seethed.

‘Fuck me, more like it,’ John said and dragged Greg to the bedroom. Greg grinned.

 

-oOo-

 

Alcohol didn’t even come close to appearing in the conversation between the Holmes brothers. Though Sherlock figured that getting sloshed would make his heart stop aching. Because Mycroft had ruined everything by dragging to Sherlock’s attention the fact that John and Greg were sleeping together.

He sat heavily on the couch, suddenly feeling cold. He started as his brother lowered himself gracefully into John’s armchair.

‘They... what?’

‘Are currently in a sexual relationship,’ Mycroft nodded, ‘though both claim it’s not a real relationship. I think the term nowadays is ‘friends with benefits’.’

‘No,’ Sherlock shook his head. ‘No, absolutely not.’

‘I have footage, Sherlock. And I saw them kissing in Gregory’s flat.’

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, raking them over his brother. So he wasn’t the only one hurt by this news. ‘You love Lestrade.’

Mycroft didn’t bother denying it, not with Sherlock. ‘Yes, I do  .’

‘How long?’

‘Many months, Sherlock. How long have you loved John?’

‘Since the first night I met him, when he killed that cabbie for me. I realised then.’

‘I see,’ Mycroft nodded.

‘What... what do we do?’ Sherlock asked. He was actually asking his brother for his advice. As much as Sherlock hated it, Mycroft had more experience with men. (No, neither man was asexual, they were both in fact homosexual. So take THAT Gregory Lestrade).

‘I’m not sure, Sherlock,’ Mycroft said. ‘If we let this continue they could very well fall for each other. But I don’t see how we can stop it unless we tell them how we feel.’

‘No, absolutely not,’ Sherlock shook his head. ‘John doesn’t like me. I won’t push him away like that, Mycroft.’

‘You can’t know how John feels, Sherlock,’ Mycroft said. ‘He may very well love you.’

‘He doesn’t,’ Sherlock insisted. ‘No, Mycroft. You can’t tell him.’

Mycroft sighed, twirling his umbrella. ‘Very well.’

 

-oOo-

 

Lying in bed together after a night of pizza and beer, John trailed his fingers over Greg’s chest. ‘Greg?’

‘Mm?’

‘I love Sherlock.’

‘I know.’

‘What do I do?’

‘I dunno, John,’ Greg sighed. ‘Tell him?’

‘No, he’ll just kick me out.’

‘You can’t know that.’

John shifted to look at his lover. ‘Greg, he’s a sociopath; he doesn’t care about people.’

‘He cares about you, John, you know that,’ Greg said. ‘And me too, though not like he cares about you. Look, you’ll never get together if you don’t tell him.’

‘I’ll end up homeless.’

Greg snorted. ‘You can crash on my couch.’

‘Oh, just gonna dump me on the couch?’ John asked and Greg chuckled.

‘John, I’m eight years older than you. I can’t handle sex every night. And you, my dear doctor, are a sex fiend.’

‘Am not.’

‘Are too.’

They both smiled and settled back down, John once again playing with Greg’s chest hair. ‘Greg?’

‘Mm?’

‘You love Mycroft.’

A statement, not a question. Greg pulled away. ‘What?’

‘I saw it when he was here. And when Sherlock talks about him... you like him, don’t you?’

Greg sighed and fell back onto the pillow. ‘Yeah, I do.’

‘Why don’t you tell him?’

‘Same reason you don’t tell Sherlock.’

‘How... how long?’

‘Dunno, ages I suppose. Don’t know exactly when. Probably first time he kidnapped me. He looks quite good when he kidnaps me.’

John smiled. ‘We’re both fucked.’

‘Mm,’ Greg agreed. ‘In more ways than one.’

 

-oOo-

 

Alcohol didn’t play a part in it this time. Maybe it was on holiday. No, this time it wasn’t anywhere near the surgery, in the room John had just given someone a prostate exam in. They were both very sober and Greg turned up to give John back a jacket the doctor had left at his flat. Of course it led to sex because giving back jackets is sexy, right? Yeah, ’course it is.

John had Greg pushed up on the exam table, Greg’s legs hooked around the doctor’s waist. Greg had fucked John the day before; now it was the doctor’s turn.

‘Jesus Christ, don’t stop,’ Greg groaned. ‘Fucking hope that door’s locked!’

‘Shoulda checked that before taking my pants off,’ John grunted, pushing into the DI deeply.

‘Oh God.’

It was quick and hot and almost everything they needed. _Almost._ What they needed were the Holmes brothers; Lestrade needed Mycroft and John needed Sherlock. But neither would break what they had for a chance at happiness.

 

-oOo-

 

Alcohol really loved Greg and John... or hated them. A love/hate relationship, let’s call it that. So anyway, alcohol led to them fucking against a wall in an alley. They’d got drunk early, probably started around two in the afternoon. So it was early, around seven, when Greg and John fell into the alley a street away from the pub.

Just because Greg was a DI didn’t mean he couldn’t be arrested. And the officers who arrested him and John Watson for indecent exposure (because the alley they were having sex in was around the corner from a primary school, one that was currently holding a play with a lot of little kids) didn’t know that Greg was a DI. And Greg just couldn’t get his badge out while at the same time pulling his pants up and getting cuffed.

He shouted he was a cop as they pushed him and John into the back of a police car. They ignored him.

He was stuck in a cell with John to sober up, both looking at the floor gloomily. Greg knew it was just a matter of time before one of his colleagues came to get him.

Neither wanted to call anyone; John really, really didn’t want Sherlock to find out he’d been arrested for getting fucked by Greg in a public street. And Greg really had nobody to call other than Donovan. He knew she’d get him out. But really, he didn’t want that.

So it was four in the morning before both were released, the officers apologising to Greg. He just shrugged. It was his own fault.

Sally Donovan was looking smug as she followed Greg and John, asking how they were, what they’d done with their night, whether they were up for coffee. Greg really hated her in those moments.

 

-oOo-

 

Greg wasn’t surprised to find Mycroft Holmes in his flat again a week later. John was still in his bedroom and he sighed. ‘Coffee?’

‘I’m fine, thank you,’ the elder Holmes said.

Greg waited until he’d made coffee and sat down. He looked at Mycroft over his mug, noticing that the man was pointedly not staring at his naked chest. ‘How can I help you?’

‘Really, Lestrade, getting arrested for indecent exposure? Shouldn’t that be a warning to break off this thing you have with Dr Watson?’

Greg scowled. ‘My private life is none of your business.’ He badly wished it _was_ Mycroft’s business. But he was Mycroft, after all. There was nothing there and Greg hated it.

Mycroft tapped his umbrella against the floor, eyes on the bookcase over Greg’s shoulder. After five minutes of silence John stumbled into the room dressed only in boxers. He looked at Mycroft wearily and the elder Holmes frowned.

He stood and said, ‘Have a pleasant day,’ before quickly exiting.

Greg sighed and leaned further back into the couch. John just offered him a smile.

 

-oOo-

 

Alcohol decided to make a good deed, to make up for all the shit it had put Greg and John through. Well, it had done a few good things, because really the sex was very good. But alcohol decided that, after months of unrequited love, it was time to make a move. It was time to help four men realise what was obvious to everybody else.

Sherlock decided that yes, alcohol would make him feel better. And for the first time in his life he got drunk in 221B with his brother. They sat on the couch talking about nothing, more and more wine passing between their lips. Greg and John were together, Mycroft had informed him. Alcohol was a poor substitute for the loss of John Watson.

Giggling was the first indicator that John was back and Sherlock turned to scowl at the door. It was pushed open and Greg and John stumbled in holding hands. They’d been looking forward to some sex (it was Sherlock’s fault for dragging them around London _again_ ) but instead found the Holmes brothers.

‘Oh, so sorry, have we messed up your evening?’ Sherlock spat.

John hated how hurt Sherlock sounded. But really, it was none of his business who John slept with. ‘Sherlock, this has nothing–’

‘It has everything to do with me!’ Sherlock said, suddenly shouting. Alcohol was messing up his brain and he had no control over his words. He stood and Mycroft raised a hand.

‘Brother, please–’

‘No, Mycroft, I’m done,’ Sherlock said and glared at Greg. ‘Get your hands off him!’

Greg was tipsy but smart enough to know that Sherlock sounded downright murderous. He removed his hand quickly and asked, ‘Why?’

‘Because,’ Sherlock huffed.

‘Not an answer,’ Greg said. ‘Why can’t I have sex with John? Really, why are you and Mycroft trying to pull us apart?’

‘You’re not right for each other!’ Sherlock snapped.

‘We’re _not_ in a relationship!’ John seethed. ‘We can have sex if we want, Sherlock, it doesn’t have anythin’ to do with you, alright?’

‘It does.’

‘Why?’ John demanded.

‘Because I love you!’

Alcohol, if it could, would be giggling right about now. It would have enjoyed the startled looks on each man’s face. Greg stared, mouth open. Mycroft raised his eyebrows, impressed with Sherlock’s blunt honestly. Sherlock was startled beyond belief that he’d let that slip. And John was... John was scowling.

‘That’s low, Sherlock; saying that just to stop me screwin’ Greg. Fuckin’ hell, thought you were better than that.’

‘I... I’m not lying,’ Sherlock said. ‘I would never lie about... about my feelings.’

‘Feelings?’ John said. ‘Oh, so you have ’em now?’

‘I always have,’ Sherlock said, alcohol making his tongue loose. ‘John, I can’t... I don’t like thinking about you and Lestrade together. You’re mine, not his.’

‘I don’t belong to you _or_ him,’ John said.

‘I want you to,’ Sherlock mumbled. ‘I want you to belong to me and... I want to belong to you.’

More silence, alcohol looking around at them all. It called from their breath, the table, the fridge; it made the whole situation taunt with sexual tension.

‘I... wah?’

‘You heard me, John,’ Sherlock huffed. ‘I love you.’

‘It’s... no, alcohol. Too much... too much alcohol,’ John mumbled. ‘I’m dreaming.’

‘No,’ Sherlock insisted. ‘John, it’s not the alcohol, please. I love you.’

Sherlock Holmes saying _please_? Wow, he really was serious.

‘John,’ Sherlock said and approached his flatmate. ‘I love you. If you... if you don’t love me tell me now, please, I need to know.’

Silence, silence, silence. It was in cahoots with the alcohol, smothering the four men. It was Greg who broke it.

‘John, kiss him for fuck’s sake.’

John didn’t need any more encouragement. So finally (mostly thanks to alcohol), John and Sherlock were kissing. They both moaned and declared their undying love as they backed into Sherlock’s barely used room. There they’d thank God and alcohol and anything else that could escape their lust soaked brains to burst from their lips.

Greg smiled and turned to Mycroft who looked just as drunk as Greg felt. ‘Well, that’s a weird ending to this night.’

Mycroft smiled as Greg fell to sit beside him.

‘There, you got your wish,’ Greg continued and downed Sherlock’s wine. ‘John and I won’t be sleepin’ together anymore.’

‘I’m glad.’

‘Why? ’Cause Sherlock’s happy now?’

‘Partly,’ Mycroft said and Greg looked at him.

‘Huh?’

Mycroft sighed. ‘It seems that tonight is a good night to declare love.’

‘I... what?’

‘I love you, Gregory.’

Greg had no answer for that. Maybe John was right; maybe this was all a dream. A pretty weird one, even by Greg Lestrade’s standards. There was no way in hell Mycroft had just said that.

‘I love you,’ Mycroft repeated.

No, not happening.

‘I have for months.’

Alcohol was being a cruel little bitch.

‘I want to date you, Gregory.’

Fucking alcohol.

‘I want to fuck you.’

Oh God, now that’s way below the belt.

‘Gregory, you’re not dreaming.’

‘W-why would you want me?’ Greg finally said, breaking from his inner-monologue.

‘That’s a stupid question.’

‘No it ain’t.’

‘No it _isn’t_ ,’ Mycroft corrected.

Greg sighed. ‘Mycroft... you’re drunk and probably just... I dunno. Look, maybe I should go home.’

‘You aren’t going home.’

‘Is that a threat?’

‘More a request.’

‘R-request?’

‘Would you like to come back to my flat, Gregory?’

‘Why?’

‘Because I love you.’

‘Stop it.’

‘I do.’

‘STOP IT!’ Greg jumped to his feet and backed away. ‘You heard me tell John, didn’t you? You’re doing this to mess with me.’

Mycroft frowned, eyes wavering because of all the wine he’d swallowed over the last hour. ‘What did you tell John?’

‘I... I told him that I... I...’

‘Yes?’ Mycroft prompted.

‘I told him I...’ Greg swallowed before practically spitting, ‘I love you.’

Mycroft’s eyebrows jumped up. ‘What?’

‘I love you!’ Greg bellowed again. ‘And now you’re fucking messing with me just because John... because John and I...’ He couldn’t go on and scrubbed at his face, wishing alcohol wasn’t making his brain so fuzzy.

‘That’s stupid,’ Mycroft said, finally pulling himself up. ‘Why would I do that?’

‘’Cause you’re a criminal mastermind,’ Greg grunted.

Mycroft smiled and approached Greg slowly, the DI’s eyes trained on him. ‘Be that as it may,’ he said and stopped in front of Greg, ‘I would never do anything to intentionally hurt you, Gregory. I love you.’

He looked so sincere and Greg felt himself beginning to believe it. ‘I don’t... why?’

‘You’re smart, funny, handsome, good at your job... take your pick. Why do you love me?’

‘The reasons you just stated,’ Greg said. He shivered when Mycroft placed both hands on his hips.

‘Gregory, it hurt me that you were with John and it still does. To know that John’s had you in that way...’ he trailed off and bit his lip. ‘I want you all to myself.’

‘You do?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

Mycroft tutted. ‘We’ve been over that, Gregory.’

‘Mm, yeah, ’course.’ He looked up into Mycroft’s eyes. ‘Mycroft?’

‘Yes?’

‘Do you really love me?’

‘I do.’

‘Let’s go back to your place.’

Mycroft grinned and leaned forward to capture Greg’s lips, Greg moaning softly.

 

-oOo-

 

John fell back onto Sherlock’s barely used bed and gasped as Sherlock collapsed atop him. Sherlock attacked his flatmates lips before pulling back to look at him. ‘I really do love you.’

‘I love you too,’ John grinned. ‘Now take your pants off.’

Sherlock complied and they helped each other strip, naked bodies crashing together. John pushed Sherlock onto the bed and forced his legs apart.

‘Can I fuck you?’

‘God, yes.’

John licked his hand, too drunk and horny to go look for condoms or lube. He slicked himself up and pushed in.

Sherlock was so much better than anything John had ever imagined. His alabaster skin was perfect beneath John’s hands, his blue eyes wide, his perfect pink lips dented with sharp white teeth. His raven curls bounced around as John pulled out and pushed back in.

Sherlock moaned, hands reaching up to stroke that beautiful cock that captivated John completely. ‘Please, John, harder.’

John complied, forcing himself deeper in. Sherlock cursed and stroked faster, alcohol and lust and the feeling of being filled by John Watson making everything hazy and so fucking good.

‘Oh God, Sherlock,’ John groaned, nails digging into Sherlock’s thighs. ‘I can’t... I need...’

‘Come inside me, please.’ Sherlock was begging a lot that night. ‘Please, please, please.’

John managed to make it another five minutes before he emptied himself into Sherlock, both shouting as Sherlock came too. John fell onto the bed in a sweaty heap, Sherlock wrapping his arms around the doctor. He kissed his lips, his cheek, his neck, everything he could reach.

‘John, John, John’ Sherlock muttered. ‘Never leave me, please.’

‘I won’t,’ John said. ‘Promise.’

 

-oOo-

 

The kissing just got more heated as they fell into Mycroft’s expensive flat. Greg didn’t have time to look around as Mycroft dragged him to the bedroom, both men stripping and stumbling.

They fell onto the bed naked, Greg moaning beneath Mycroft. ‘Fuck me, please,’ he begged.

‘God,’ Mycroft groaned, never thinking he’d hear those words from Greg Lestrade.

Greg pushed him up to suck at his cock, quickly making Mycroft slick enough. He pulled back and spread his legs. ‘Mycroft, please.’

Mycroft grinned and Greg shifted back on the bed so Mycroft could get more comfortable. He pushed in swiftly, making the DI groan and shouted out a number of obscenities.

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck, Jesus,’ Mycroft groaned as he was completely surrounded by Greg’s tightness and heat.

He moved immediately and there was nothing soft about it. Mycroft jammed himself in up to the hilt repeatedly, making Greg grab at his shoulders and curse. It was the best thing Greg had ever felt, the best thing _either_ of them had ever felt. Mycroft was so very, very good.

Mycroft repeatedly hit Greg’s prostate as he shifted about trying to burry himself deeper into the man he loved. It shouldn’t have been possible but each time he felt himself slip in more and more.

‘Fuck, Mycroft, I’m...’ Greg couldn’t finish. He grabbed his cock and tugged, moaning. ‘Fuck.’

Mycroft bent down to pull at Greg’s lips, sucking them between his own before slipping his tongue in. Dear God Greg tasted good. He tasted of beer and cigarettes and _Greg._ It just made Mycroft moan even more.

Greg shuddered beneath him and his muscles tightened as he came, showering his stomach in come. He moaned loudly and felt Mycroft spill into him, the elder Holmes cussing and shaking.

When the stars behind his eyes disappeared and he got control of his body, Mycroft pulled out. He flopped onto the bed beside Greg, panting and blinking.

‘Thank God for alcohol,’ Greg mused as he turned to smile at Mycroft.

‘Yes, without it I doubt Sherlock would have told John how he felt. And then...’

‘Then you wouldn’t have told me,’ Greg said and grinned. He leaned forward and kissed Mycroft softly. ‘Can I stay?’

‘I never want you to leave,’ Mycroft answered.

 

-oOo-

Much later, when the alcohol cleared and both men could think clearly, Sherlock turned to John.

‘John?’

‘Yeah, Sherlock?’

‘I love you.’

‘I love you too.’

 

-oOo-

 

The alcohol disappeared but their feelings didn’t and never would. Mycroft shifted so he met Greg’s eyes.

‘Gregory?’

‘Mm? What is it, Mycroft?’

‘I really do love you.’

‘And I really love you too.’

 

-oOo-

 

Always remember this; alcohol fuels everything. And sometimes it does a damn good job.


End file.
